Love and War
by HousePiglet
Summary: House plays a joke on Wilson but it has unexpected consequences. Wilson ends up with a concussion and amnesia. Drama, humour and a wee bit of angst.


**Tuesday Morning**

"Oh my goodness!" House hovered in the doorway to Wilson's office and surveyed the scene before him. Wilson was sprawled on his back, on the floor behind his desk, and his chair lay upended beside him. He wasn't moving, and his eyes were closed. House grinned, and it was all he could do to keep from rubbing his hands together with glee. "I played a practical joke on my best friend," he intoned, gravely, "and he's badly injured!"

House paused then, to give Wilson a chance to come in with his usual sarcastic rejoinder. Wilson didn't speak, though, and so House reached into his pocket and pulled out a caster, which at 7am that morning had been connected to the leg of Wilson's chair. "I wish I'd learned this valuable lesson earlier!" he said, and tossed the caster in Wilson's direction. But Wilson made no move to catch it, and the caster hit him square in the mouth and bounced to the floor, where it thudded softly to a halt against the wall behind the coat stand.

This was an unexpected development, and House experienced a frisson of guilt. A little more than a frisson, actually, but only for a moment. _Well if Wilson wanted to play silly mind games he had only himself to blame if he got hurt!_ And so he stepped across to Wilson and whacked him hard on the shin with the head of his cane. "Come on, Wilson," he said, as he lowered his cane to the floor. "You can't fool me." He stopped, then, and raised a hand to his ear as though listening carefully. "Time to get up. I think I hear cancer-kids crying in the Clinic."

Wilson still didn't react, though, and House noticed that a bead of blood was forming on his lower lip. As House watched it spilled over, and began to trickle down the side of Wilson's face. _Impressive self-control!_ he thought, and he added 100 bonus points to the 'Wilson' column of the mental chart on which he kept a daily tally, scoring Wilson's responses to his pranks. _Then again_, he reflected, _Wilson had always been a master of deceit_.

When several seconds later Wilson still hadn't cracked a small frown appeared on House's brow, and something that felt uncomfortably like alarm began to stir in his stomach. "There's such a thing as _over-acting_, Wilson," he muttered, as he knelt down and shook Wilson by the shoulder. Apparently Wilson didn't agree, though, and as his head flopped to one side a drop of blood fell from his cheek to the carpet, and beaded there, glistening. Surprised to find himself hurrying, suddenly, House pressed two fingers to Wilson's neck. Then he dug in his pocket for a pen light, and leaned down quickly to check Wilson's eyes.

"_Shit!"_ Faster than he'd previously have believed possible, House dragged himself to his feet and shot a hand across Wilson's desk to the phone. "I'm on the third floor," he yelled, almost panting. "Get a team up here, stat. Forty-one year old male. Unconscious. Blunt trauma to the head. Possible closed head injury." Then he dropped the phone onto the desk and hurried back to Wilson's side.

– ----- –

Thirty minutes later Wilson was hooked up to IVs and a heart monitor, and a cluster of anxious-looking nurses was hovering near his cubicle. There'd been a short delay in moving him to the E.R. because House, in his near-panic, had forgotten to identify their location. Fortunately Cameron had eventually gate-crashed Wilson's office, unwilling to forgo House's help with her seizure patient from downstairs. As House had monitored Wilson's pulse and maintained his airway, Cameron had chased up the trauma team.

X-rays had shown no evidence of a fracture, and Foreman's initial assessment had revealed no clear sign of underlying brain injury. Wilson hadn't regained consciousness, though, and with a GCS score of only 6 he'd been intubated just in case. House's cane was now beating a tattoo on the floor at the foot of the gurney, as he waited for the call to take Wilson down for a CT scan.

Cuddy had blown in ten minutes earlier like the first blast of a tornado. "What the hell _happened?_" she'd demanded, glaring at House as she'd snatched the chart from his hand and read it quickly through.

"Hey! Don't blame me!" House had snapped back, his voice loud, and shrill with indignation. "I don't monitor Wilson's every waking move. I just went into his office and found him lying on the floor!"

"That's crap, House," Cuddy had replied. "Wilson can barely _breathe_ lately without you counting his respirations. Cameron says you were spying on him across the balcony. You told her something about setting up a video camera!"

She'd glared at House again, but the irritation had faded from her face as she'd bent over Wilson and gently brushed an invisible strand of hair from his brow.

"How did _this_ happen?" she'd asked shortly afterwards, as her fingers had moved from Wilson's head to the cut on his lip. Then she'd turned and stared at House, accusingly. "You didn't _hit_ him, did you?"

House had rolled his eyes. "Right! I socked him in the mouth and then I smacked him over the head with a baseball bat!" he'd replied. "What do _you_ think?" he'd added, a moment later, raising his eyebrows.

In fact, Cuddy's expression had suggested to House that she might be willing to believe it. Finally she'd gathered her papers together, though, and glowered up at him.

"When's the CT scheduled?" she'd asked.

"I'm waiting for the idiots in Radiology to call me back." House had had a brief but emphatic conversation with Norton in Diagnostic Imaging, in which he'd threatened to go down and clear out a cubicle himself if they didn't make immediate space for Wilson in the schedule.

Cuddy had read his expression and reached for her phone. "I'll speak to them," she'd said, and she was already dialing the number as she'd left the cubicle. "Page me as soon as there's any change," she'd called back, as the door to the E.R. had swung closed behind her.

House had divided his time since then between bullying the nursing staff and monitoring Wilson's readings. His whole team had shown up earlier, as word of Wilson's accident had spread rapidly through the hospital. House had sent them away, though. He wasn't in the mood for inane chatter, and besides—there was no mystery to be solved. No mystery about it at all, in fact. Wilson's best friend had played a joke that had landed him in the E.R. with a concussion, but somehow the joke didn't seem quite as funny now.

"_Shit!"_ House growled, again, and—unable to wait any longer—he made his way rapidly across the room to the phone. He was just about to call Radiology and threaten physical violence when he heard a rustle behind him, and when he turned back he saw Wilson move his head to the side and lift a hand to explore the obstruction in his mouth.

House dropped the phone, crossed the room in double-quick time and bent low over Wilson, his hands resting on the rails at the sides of the gurney. "Hey! Wilson!" he called, searching Wilson's face for signs of recognition. Wilson opened his eyes and stared blankly back, and House produced his pen light and rested the heel of his hand on Wilson's forehead. "Hold still a minute. I just need to check..." His words trailed off as he moved from Wilson's right eye to his left, and moments later he looked up at the monitor and then back down at Wilson. "Blink twice if you understand what I'm saying." A few seconds passed, and then Wilson blinked, twice. "Okay, Wilson," said House, peeling back the tape from around Wilson's mouth. "I'm going to take the tube out. Take a deep breath for me and then blow."

Wilson did as he was told, and shortly afterwards House dropped the tube into a tray and wiped Wilson's face down with a tissue. The tissue joined the tube in the tray, and then House leaned forwards again.

"Do you know who you are?" he asked, acutely aware of a sudden, painful tightening in his chest as he waited for Wilson's response.

For a moment Wilson said nothing, but finally he spoke. "My name is Bond," he croaked. "James Bond."

Immediately he began to cough, and House reached quickly for a cup of water and held the straw to Wilson's mouth. Wilson took a sip and then raised a hand to his lip, wincing as the straw pressed against the site of his cut.

House barely had time to register Wilson's expression, though, as he pulled the cup away and replaced it quickly on the cabinet. Then he leaned forwards again.

"Wilson," he said, his voice now urgent, and filled with anxiety. He hesitated for a moment, and then he took hold of the rail in front of him with both hands. "Tell me your full name."

Wilson coughed, and raised a hand towards the back of his head. Then he spoke again. "Relax, House," he said, hoarsely, and with a trace of a smile. "It's me."

House's head swam, and he sat down suddenly on a chair beside the gurney. He took a deep breath, and a moment later he silently added a further 500 bonus points and an Extra Life to the 'Wilson' column in his head. "You _bastard!_" he breathed, but he was unable to completely quell the hint of admiration in his voice.

Wilson was looking around, though, and for the first time he seemed to be registering his surroundings. "Wait..." A look of confusion crossed his face, and he turned back to House with a frown. "What happened? What am I doing in the E.R.?"

House hadn't quite recovered from his shock, but he pushed himself out of the chair and draped his fingers loosely around Wilson's wrist. "You had an accident," he said, his eyes fixed on Wilson's arm. "Do you know what year it is? And don't tell me 1765," he added suddenly, as he raised his head and met Wilson's eyes.

Wilson's gaze rose towards the ceiling, and for a few moments he said nothing. Then he frowned. "I'm not..." he began, but he stopped, and lifted a hand to his lip. He winced again, and for a moment his fingers rested on the site of his cut. Then he looked down and turned his head towards House, confusion and alarm now visible on his face. "What am I doing here?" he asked again. "What am I doing in the E.R.?"

– ----- –

**Tuesday Night**

It had taken House some time to convince himself that Wilson's amnesia was genuine, but eventually he'd had to accept it. He was pretty sure even _Wilson_ wouldn't go this far to screw with him, and besides—it definitely wasn't funny any more. Standing with Cuddy and Foreman at the foot of Wilson's bed that night, he ran through the events of the day in his mind.

When Wilson had come round House had paged Foreman, and called Cuddy. Cuddy had brought in Arnold from Neurology, and it had quickly become clear that the amnesia was real.

The most immediate problem had been Wilson's inability to retain new information. They'd explained the reason for his admission repeatedly, but each time something would distract him, and the memory would be lost. Watching had been agonizing, and House's heart rate and blood pressure had risen in tandem with Wilson's each time they'd had to provide the explanation afresh.

In the middle of the neurological exam Radiology had called Wilson for his CT scan. Afterwards he'd been transferred to a private room, where Arnold and Foreman had continued. Cuddy had arrived as they were finishing.

"The good news is there's no sign of any lesion," Arnold had told her, as they'd moved into the corridor. "There is evidence of edema, though. It's not clear from the films how extensive it is, but I've scheduled an MRI for later this afternoon. That should give us more to work with."

"What about the amnesia?" House had asked, as he'd examined the films.

Arnold had shrugged. "It's too early to say. The anteretrograde amnesia may well be temporary, and we won't know how extensive the retrograde amnesia it is until we've been able to test him properly. He doesn't remember the accident, though, and right now it looks as though he's experiencing a deficit extending back over a period of several years. That might just be the swelling, though," he'd added, as Cuddy's eyes had widened. "It's not uncommon for amnesia to resolve as the swelling goes down. All we can do is monitor it for now."

As morning had turned to afternoon, Wilson had appeared to improve. He'd become less easily distracted, and the explanation for his admission had begun to stick. By mid afternoon, though, his condition had started to deteriorate. He'd developed a worsening headache, and he'd vomited several times, once managing to spray both House and Cuddy in their positions at the side of his bed. When he'd begun to show signs of disorientation House had paged Foreman.

"Where the hell have you been?" he'd demanded, as Foreman had arrived. "He's unconscious. I paged you twenty minutes ago."

"I was with a patient," Foreman had replied, producing his pen light and leaning forwards to lift Wilson's right eyelid. "Arnold asked me for a consult."

"Arnold doesn't employ you," House had replied. He'd kept his voice low, but he'd felt the heat of blood rushing to his face as he'd spoken. "Until I tell you otherwise, _Wilson's_ your only patient."

Foreman had ignored House, and continued with his examination. He'd been unable to rouse Wilson properly, though, and even in response to pain Wilson had done no more than mumble something even House had been unable to make out, before drifting off again.

"It looks like raised intracranial pressure," Foreman had concluded, as he'd finished his exam and read over the chart. Then he'd crossed to the phone. "It might be the edema, or there could be a bleed. Either way, we need to do the MRI, stat. I'll call Radiology."

Twenty minutes later Wilson had been wheeled to the scanner.

"I still don't see a bleed," Foreman had said, as he'd scrolled through the images with the mouse. "The edema's worse than it looked on the CT, though. There's diffuse swelling. It's probably still developing." House had read the pictures for himself, and he'd turned away and listened as though from a great distance as Foreman had given the order to increase the Mannitol, and start Wilson on Dilantin.

After that Wilson had been intubated again, and sedated. A second MRI had been scheduled for the following morning, and a surgeon had been placed on standby. It had been agreed that if the swelling worsened overnight then Wilson would be taken down to the O.R. for insertion of an ICP monitor.

_Or worse_, House reflected now, his hands tightening around the head of his cane as images of drains and craniotomies flashed across his mind.

He emerged finally from his thoughts to the drone of Foreman's voice. It was late, and House hadn't left Wilson's side since the accident, some twelve hours earlier. Tired, now, and sore, he raised his head to check on Wilson. Despite the sedation he'd grown restless, and as House watched he turned his head to one side, and attempted to raise a hand towards his face.

Foreman was speaking to Cuddy. "Some degree of amnesia is almost inevitable," he was saying, "but we won't know how bad it is until he's well enough to undergo the tests. The severity of the injury is a good predictor, though. We'll know more about that when we do the second scan in the morning. He could still turn out to be fine."

Wilson moved his head again, and House felt a sudden surge of anger in his chest.

"Oh, for crying out loud! Tell her something she doesn't already know!" he snapped, spinning on his cane and making a sudden move in Foreman's direction. "Wilson's lying here unable to remember how take a crap, and all you can come up with is platitudes about how it might all end happily ever after. Remind me again why I ever hired you?"

A look of intense irritation crossed Foreman's face, and for a moment it looked to House as though he was squaring up for some sort of fight. House was more than ready to engage in any kind of conflict Foreman had in mind, but before he could make another move Cuddy stepped between them and placed a hand on House's chest.

"Stop it, both of you," she said. "This isn't helping anyone." Then she turned to Foreman. "There's nothing more you can do here now. Come and see me in the morning when you have the results of the scan." Foreman raised his eyes, and directed a scornful look towards House, but he said nothing more as he collected his things and left the room.

Cuddy turned back to House. "I'm _ordering_ you to take a break. Go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I'll stay here. Come back in a couple of hours. Wilson isn't going anywhere."

House thought about arguing, but suddenly it occurred to him that there was something he needed to do. He slipped a hand into his pocket instead, and brought out his Vicodin.

"You're wasted here," he said, as he shook two pills into his palm and then swallowed them. "Ever thought about a career as a dominatrix? 'cause I could _totally_ get you in." Cuddy shot him a glare, but as House limped towards the door he knew her heart wasn't really in it.

– ----- --

House made straight for the third floor, and, bypassing Diagnostics, went directly to Wilson's office. He'd thought the door might be locked but it wasn't, and he pushed it open and switched on the light.

Wilson's office looked like a crash site. His desk had been pushed roughly to one side to make way for the gurney, and there were pieces of emergency-related detritus littering the floor. House poked at a couple with his cane as he made his way across the room, and wondered whether Cuddy had instructed Housekeeping to leave the scene untouched.

Wilson's chair was still stranded on its side, but it had been pushed back towards the wall. House gazed at it for a moment. It looked to him like a wounded animal, and he experienced what he knew was an irrational desire to restore it to its feet. He walked across and hooked his cane around an arm, and pulled it upwards. Taking hold of the back, then, he straightened the chair and stood it next to the desk.

Restored temporarily to equilibrium, the chair listed to one side when House removed his hand. House turned towards the coat stand and dropped his eyes to the floor. The caster was still lying against the wall, and House walked over and dragged it towards him with his cane. Then he bent down and picked it up, and after that he made his way back to the chair and lowered himself to the floor.

It proved more difficult to replace the caster than it had been to remove it. One determined twist had been enough to do the job that morning, but it soon became clear that replacement would require finesse. Eventually House managed it, and when he'd finished he sat back to survey his handiwork. He felt no satisfaction in having completed the job, though, and so he pulled himself back to his feet and walked to the door.

As he left the room he raised a hand to switch off the light, but something about the finality of the gesture felt wrong. He left it as it was, and closed the door behind him.

– ----- –

**Saturday Morning**

House woke suddenly from his nightmare to the sound of somebody calling his name. Disoriented, he lay for a moment attempting to remember where he was. Then he opened his eyes to the sight of Wilson watching him from a hospital bed. Wilson was frowning, and pushing insistently on one end of House's cane.

The cane lay on the bed between them, threaded carefully through the bed rails, and House had secured it in place with a piece of rubber tubing. One end lay in Wilson's hand, and the other lay on House's lap.

"Hey. I'm sorry I woke you, but you were shouting. You woke me up. Bad dream?" Wilson's eyebrows rose as he spoke, and it looked to House as though they were in danger of disappearing into the bandage around his head.

"I was sleeping next to you," House growled. "What do you expect?" Then he reached for the arms of his chair, and pushed himself to his feet.

The dream had indeed been a bad one. The details were already fading, but the last thing House remembered was standing in the observation room, screaming "Get a _real_ surgeon! He's only an intensivist!" as Chase, masked and dressed in scrubs, had lowered a scalpel confidently towards Wilson's exposed brain.

House shuddered inwardly and raised his eyes to Wilson's monitor, and a moment later he reached across and took hold of Wilson by the wrist. This had become a familiar action during the course of the preceding days, and House was pretty sure that Wilson knew just as clearly as he did that it had little to do with checking a pulse. He was less sure about which one of them benefited more from the contact.

"How do you feel?" he asked. "Any headache, or pukiness?"

"A bit of a headache, but no nausea this morning."

Wilson looked almost well, and House intoned a quiet mental _"Hallelujah!"_ as he composed his features into the mandatory frown.

Wilson's progress over the course of the preceding three days had been mixed. House had monitored him closely during the night of the accident, and his condition hadn't grown any worse. Nor had his level of consciousness improved, though, and the following morning the results of the second MRI had been similar to those of the first. Ultimately Arnold had decided to go ahead with insertion of the ICP monitor.

But pressure had dropped steadily from that point, and by late on Thursday afternoon Wilson had been conscious, and able to conduct a normal conversation. _Well, normal by the standards of any conversation they'd ever had_ House reflected now, as he dropped Wilson's wrist and turned towards the bedside cabinet.

Progress on the amnesia front had been less encouraging. The good news was that the period involved was diminishing rapidly—if recovery of the memories of a third divorce, his best friend's shooting and suspension of a DEA license could properly be called 'good news', that is: and, considering it now, House wasn't sure they could. The bad news was that Arnold and Foreman had found evidence of semantic as well as episodic deficits.

"It's not just his autobiographical memory that's been affected," Arnold had explained on Friday. "There seems to be a selective loss of factual information too. He didn't score well on Famous Names or Famous Events, and he's confused about some fairly simple aspects of his treatment."

"Which aspects?" Cuddy had asked. They'd been standing in the corridor outside Wilson's room, and as she'd spoken she'd turned to look at Wilson, now dozing in his bed.

"Drugs, mainly," Arnold had replied. "He's having difficulty remembering the names. Selective deficits like this are quite unusual, but they're not unknown. We'll know more when we've been able to carry out further tests."

"Could it be permanent?" Cuddy had asked. She was still watching Wilson, and as she'd spoken House had looked up from his inspection of the floor, and moved across to join her at the window.

"It could be, but it could also be transient," Arnold had replied, with a shrug. "Some people make a complete recovery as the swelling dies down. Others recover nothing. Most fall somewhere along the spectrum. But even if he doesn't recover the information he might be able to re-learn it. It all depends on how serious the underlying injury is. We should have a clearer picture in a week or so."

"Well that's just _great!_" House had said, suddenly, turning towards Arnold on his cane. "Way to cover all the bases! I can _totally_ see why they pay you the big bucks as Head of Neurology."

"Hey, get off my back, House," Arnold had responded, reddening. "What do you want me to say? Because it's Wilson he'll be back to normal by Monday morning? Well we're not talking about a broken ankle, here. It doesn't work that way."

Cuddy had stepped between them and held up her hands. "All right!" she'd said. "Let's just leave it there. House..." She'd placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it, none too gently. "Go in and sit with Wilson. It looks like he's waking up."

House had hesitated, but as the pressure from Cuddy's fingers had increased he'd felt his anger drain suddenly away. Arnold was an idiot, but he wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, and so he'd pulled his arm back and pushed the door open, before crossing to Wilson's bed.

Wilson had looked up at him, sleepily: much as he was looking at him now, House realized, as he turned back to Wilson with a cup of water and held the straw to his lips.

"Drink some of this," he said, through an annoying tightness at the back of his throat.

As Wilson drank there was a noise at the side of the room, and Cuddy opened the door. She looked over, and smiled when she saw Wilson awake.

"Hey!" she said as she crossed to the bed. "How are you feeling this morning? Did you sleep okay?"

She unhooked the chart and glanced at it, still smiling, as Wilson passed the water back to House and grinned up at her.

"Better," he said. "No thanks to House, though."

"Really?"

Cuddy shot a quick look at House, and then turned back to Wilson.

"What's he been up to now?" she asked, lightly. "Swapping out your Mannitol for laxatives?"

As Cuddy named the drug Wilson's smile faded into a blank expression, and then his gaze dropped to the bed.

House rolled his eyes, and turned on Cuddy with a glare.

"Nice work!" he said, his face assuming a reddish hue. "That's _exactly_ what Wilson needed. An early morning reminder that what was already a pathetic excuse for a brain is now scrambled!"

He turned back to Wilson, then, and took a deep breath. "Relax," he said. "Mannitol's a diuretic."

Wilson still looked blank, and so House continued.

"It makes you pee. Helps to reduce the swelling in your brain. We've been using it to stop your head from exploding."

Wilson looked alarmed, and it occurred to House that he hadn't struck quite the reassuring note he'd been seeking. He took another breath and tried again.

"Semantic amnesia's not uncommon after this kind of injury. It could well be temporary. There's no need to worry yet."

Now Wilson looked confused, and so House gave up in frustration.

"Look," he said, "there's already been some improvement. Give it time." He glared at Cuddy again. "And in the meantime, just try to ignore everything Cuddy says. In fact," he concluded, "maybe you should just _forget_ about Cuddy. Remember telling me last week what an _idiot_ you thought she was?"

Wilson looked anxiously at Cuddy but she smiled back at him, and a moment later she threw a grudging smile towards House.

"Very funny!" she said, gathering her things together and bending to kiss Wilson's forehead. "I have a couple of meetings now, but I'll be up later to see how you're coming along. Try not to kill him in the meantime," was her parting shot to House, as she left the room.

As the door closed behind Cuddy, House turned back to Wilson. "Okay, Lurch," he said, reaching for an order form on the cabinet and starting to circle his preferences. "Let's order you some breakfast so I can get something to eat."

– ----- –

**The Following Weekend**

At two o'clock the following Friday afternoon House was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk, flicking through case files.

He'd spent most of the previous week in Wilson's room, and as Wilson's condition had improved House had endured a steady stream of visits from his team, seeking advice and guidance in relation to ongoing cases.

Foreman had been delighted to take temporary charge, and fortunately the hospital hadn't been inundated with patients seeking urgent delivery from mysterious life-threatening illnesses. Still, though: there would always be some questions that only House was able to answer. _All part of the heavy burden of genius_, he mused, as he pushed back with his feet against the desk and balanced his chair on two legs.

"Careful, House," said a voice, suddenly, in front of him. House started, and looked up to find Cuddy in the doorway. His feet slipped, and the front two legs of his chair dropped to the floor with a crash. House's legs slid onto the desk and collided with the pile of case files that Thirteen had placed there, causing a minor landslide.

"Guilty conscience?" Cuddy threw House a wry smile as she crossed the room, and positioned herself carefully on the edge of the desk in front of him. "You should be more careful," she said again. "The last thing you need is to have an unfortunate accident, and end up like Wilson."

"Wilson's doing fine," House growled, and after a brief pause he leaned forwards and swept the scattered pile of case files into the trash. He sneaked a glance at Cuddy to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained calm.

"And so is my conscience," he continued. "Anyway, did you actually _want_ something?" He leered dramatically towards Cuddy's breasts. Cuddy was wearing a low-cut sweater, and House made it a point of principle always to draw attention to them. "Because I'm due to pick Wilson up in about five minutes, but if you let me off clinic duty for, let's say, six months we could stop at a closet on the way down. I'm sure Wilson won't mind if I'm a couple of minutes late."

He didn't wait for an answer, but instead leaned forwards and lifted his right leg off the desk, swinging his other leg down behind it.

Cuddy rolled her eyes but she ignored the invitation, and returned instead to the subject of Wilson.

"Are you sure Wilson's ready to go home?" she asked, her voice more serious now. "Glover's holding a room for him at the Anderson Center. I still think it makes more sense to keep him here over the weekend and transfer him on Monday morning. I know he's doing better now, but rehabilitation can make a big difference in a case like this. I don't like to think of the two of you alone together in his apartment."

Wilson's amnesia had begun to show clear signs of improvement, but the events of the preceding six months were still a complete blank. Arnold and Foreman were now optimistic, but as the days had passed Wilson had grown increasingly frustrated. His frustration was now verging on impatience, and at times it had been as much as House could manage to keep him in his room.

House had slipped his jacket off the back of his chair as Cuddy was speaking, and now he began to shrug it over his shoulders.

"Wilson's fine," he replied, reaching under the desk for his backpack. "Well okay: he's not exactly _fine_," he amended, "but you can't keep him shut up in the hospital forever. He needs rehabilitation in the _real_ world. He'll do much better in his own place. The last thing he needs is a bunch of strangers waving cue cards at him, and asking what he had for breakfast two years ago." Then he picked up his cane, and began to walk towards the door.

Cuddy followed him. "Well just be careful, House. Seriously."

As they reached the door she took hold of his arm, and held him for a moment in the doorway. As she spoke she looked up at him, earnestly.

"Be careful, House. Wilson's not a _toy_."

She hesitated for a moment, but then she went on.

"I'm not sure what you did, and I'm almost sure you didn't mean to do it." She paused again. "And I _definitely_ don't want to know," she continued. "But really, House. Be careful. You've already done more than enough damage."

House stared at her for a moment, as a series of potential responses flashed through his mind. For once it appeared to him that Cuddy might actually be right, though, and so he contented himself with a derisive snort and set off towards the elevator.

– ----- –

Five minutes later House arrived at Wilson's room and slid the door open. Wilson was seated on a chair, packing magazines into a duffel bag, and as the door opened he looked over at House and smiled broadly.

"So!" he said. "Cuddy caved in the end, huh? Well let's go before she changes her mind. I've been climbing the walls waiting for you to get here!" He zipped the bag shut at that, and jumped to his feet.

House hadn't yet grown used to the change in Wilson's behavior. He'd watched silently from the doorway a few nights earlier as Wilson had lain huddled under his blankets, trembling, his face turned towards the far wall. Other times--and it looked to House now as though maybe this might be one of them--Wilson had been agitated: impulsive, impatient, unable to sit still. It wasn't quite _'Wilson on speed'_ he reflected now, casting his mind back for a moment to an incident from more than a year before. It wasn't far off it, though, and it occurred to House that when he'd suggested to Wilson that he still wasn't boring this hadn't been quite what he'd had in mind.

The sight of Wilson suddenly clutching at the bed rail and dropping heavily back into the chair roused House from his reverie, and he moved urgently across the room and placed a steadying hand on Wilson's shoulder.

"Dizzy again?" he asked, although the inquiry was more about establishing contact than eliciting information. "Put your head down before you fall and break your skull," he ordered, and with his other hand he pushed Wilson's head towards the floor. "Breathe slowly," he said, and again Wilson did as he was told.

House knelt down then, grimacing a little as his right leg objected to the sudden change of position. He raised a hand to Wilson's neck, and a minute or two later, when Wilson's heart had slowed to a more normal rate, he spoke.

"I think it's coming out in Morse code," he said. "It reads _I. Am. An. Idiot!---I. Am. An. Idiot!---I. Am. An. Idiot!_"

House lowered his hand, then, and pulled himself back to his feet. "Sounds like you may have suffered some aphasia, Wilson. I'll get you a thesaurus for your birthday, but in the meantime try mixing that up a bit with 'moron', 'blockhead', 'nitwit' and 'jerk'. 'Bonehead' pretty much covers it too. See if you can manage to move a little slower this time."

House watched as Wilson rose to his feet; a little more carefully, now.

"Sorry," Wilson said, looking shamefaced. "It's just that I can't wait to get out of here."

House chose not to respond to that, and instead he took hold of the wheelchair at the foot of Wilson's bed. Then he spun the chair around and got in.

"Come on," he said, giving the chair a couple of experimental runs, and attempting a test wheelie. "You can push this easier than me. Let's take this baby for a spin."

– ----- –

They were waiting for the elevator when Wilson asked if they could visit his office.

"I know we told Cuddy we'd go straight back to my place," he said. "I want to take a look, though." His expression was difficult to read, and for a moment House wasn't sure how to respond. Perhaps Wilson noticed, because a moment later he pressed his point again. "Oh, come on, House. Where's the harm? It might just bring something back about the accident."

House sincerely hoped it wouldn't, but for once he wasn't able to think of a convincing reason to say no. They left the elevator at the third floor, and House wheeled himself slowly towards Wilson's room as Wilson followed along behind. When they arrived at the office Wilson opened the door, and pushed House inside.

Housekeeping had been in since House's last visit, and no trace of the accident remained. Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment, and then walked across to his desk. Then he pulled out his chair and lowered himself into the seat. As he did so the chair slipped a little, as Wilson's weight forced the caster fully into place. Wilson didn't react, but House walked quickly across to the couch and sat down.

For several minutes Wilson sat silently at his desk, leafing through paperwork and inspecting the contents of his drawers. "It's... weird!" he said to House, eventually, closing a file and adding it to a small pile beneath the lamp. "I don't remember a single thing about it. What I was reading; what time I got in; whether I'd spoken to anyone..." He gazed at the floor for a moment, and then he looked back to House. "So where did you find me, exactly?"

House shifted uncomfortably on the couch. This wasn't a discussion he was ready to have. "Come on," he said, a moment later. "Let's go. There's nothing to see."

Wilson stayed where he was, though, and instead he reached for a fluffy miniature rabbit, and picked it up.

House recognized the rabbit. It had been a gift from Jenny; one of Wilson's former patients. In the course of her short life she'd spent more time in the hospital under Wilson's care than she had in North Princeton with her parents. When she'd finally died, some four months earlier, Wilson had shut up his office for the day, and gone home.

Amber had called House the following morning, and offered him an extra evening's visitation. She hadn't explained why, but House hadn't needed to ask. He'd taken Wilson bowling, and then to a bar, and as Wilson had worked his way steadily through a line of Martinis they'd both studiously avoided any reference to Jenny's death. He'd returned Wilson drunk, but for once Amber hadn't complained.

It had been the only truce in what had felt to House at the time like a battle for Wilson's... _Affections?_ House still wasn't sure what label to apply to what he'd been afraid that Amber might steal from him. _Or maybe he was_, he thought now; maybe he simply wasn't comfortable admitting it to himself.

"Where did this come from?" House looked up to find that Wilson was still holding the rabbit. "I mean, I know it was probably a gift, but I can't remember who gave it to me." It occurred to House then that Wilson had almost certainly forgotten an event as recent as Jenny's death, although he was unlikely to have forgotten Jenny herself. Somehow, though, House didn't feel like reminding him.

"How the hell should I know?" he eventually replied. "All those fuzzy-headed cancer brats look the same to me." He stood up, and crossed to Wilson's desk, and there he took the rabbit from Wilson's hand and dropped it into the trash. "Come on," he said. "I need to eat, and it's your turn to pay. If you're a good boy, Mom'll buy you a new toy on the way home." Then he sat down in the wheelchair, again, and jerked it up onto its back wheels.

Wilson lingered a little longer, but eventually he turned to go. They met Cuddy as they emerged from the elevator on the ground floor, and at the sight of House in the wheelchair she rolled her eyes.

"This is _exactly_ the sort of thing I was afraid of!" she said, pulling Wilson's hands away from the chair. "Get up, House. You're lucky I don't suspend your privileges for abusing a patient!"

"Wilson needs exercise!" House declared, as he applied the brake and stepped out. "Think of it as rehabilitation. Without a memory, pretty soon Wilson's going to need a new job. I'm just helping him re-train as..." House paused, and pretended to rack his brains for a suitable new career. "...a rickshaw driver!"

Cuddy rolled her eyes, but her expression softened as she turned to Wilson. "I'll be over to see you tomorrow," she said. "Call me if he pulls any more stunts like this." Then she reached up and kissed Wilson's face.

Cuddy didn't move as House walked Wilson towards the entrance, and as House ushered Wilson through the door he looked back and saw that she was still standing in Reception, watching them go.

– ----- –

The drive to Wilson's apartment was uneventful, but as they drew closer Wilson began to grow quiet.

He'd met with a psychologist that week--even House had acknowledged the need for him to be reintroduced to some of his recent history. The psychologist had brought up the subject of Amber, and Wilson had raised it with House.

Wilson remembered Amber as a candidate for one of House's fellowships, but he had no recollection of their relationship. He was confused, in fact, because apparently _'annoying'_ was the primary impression he'd retained.

He hadn't asked House much about the relationship, and House had concluded that he was still attempting to think it through. He'd asked about Amber's death, though, and as House had reluctantly provided a synopsis of the events that had led up to it he'd shifted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of Wilson's silent gaze. For now Wilson had appeared content to let the subject drop, and House hoped that he wasn't planning to reintroduce it in the near future.

House glanced at Wilson from his position at the wheel, but Wilson had turned his head away, and was staring out of the window.

"Okay?" House inquired, cautiously? "We can still go back to my place, if you'd prefer."

They'd discussed this earlier in the week, but Wilson had been keen to move back into his own apartment. Besides, there was a small spare room that Amber had used as an office, and so House had arranged to have a bed delivered the day before. He wasn't sure his sense of guilt extended to cover a month of uncomfortable nights on Wilson's couch, and Wilson hadn't objected to the arrangement.

"No, I'm fine," Wilson said, turning back towards House and producing a wan smile. "It's just all a little... strange. I'm sure I'll get used to it," he continued, turning back towards the window. "It's not much further now, right?"

A few minutes later they arrived at the building, and as House pulled into the parking lot Wilson turned towards him, his voice filled with surprise. "I live _here_?" he asked. "I _know_ this place. Julie leased an apartment here after the divorce."

"A dead girlfriend _and_ an ex wife?" replied House on auto pilot, as he turned the car towards the elevators. Then he turned to Wilson and raised an eyebrow. "Have you thought about feng shui? I could buy you a consultation as a 'welcome home' gift."

For a moment Wilson looked stunned, but then a wounded expression crept into his eyes, and he quickly ducked his head.

_Shit!_ House winced, as he pulled up close to the elevators and switched off the engine. Then he took a deep breath. "Wilson," he said, as he turned towards the passenger seat. "I didn't..."

"It's okay, House." Wilson cut across him, and looked up with a trace of an exasperated smile. "I know you didn't. Come on. Let's go up."

Wilson was silent as they first entered the apartment, and House waited awkwardly in the doorway, fiddling with his cane. Wilson moved slowly from room to room, pausing occasionally to handle unfamiliar objects. He spent so long in the bedroom that House began to wonder whether something was wrong. Eventually he emerged, though, and crossed to the kitchen, where he made a careful inspection of the cupboards.

Arriving at the fridge he opened the door, and then he leaned in, turning back to House with a couple of beers in his hands. "Looks like someone's been here before me," he said, smiling and tossing one over to House. "There's a pizza and some left-over takeout too. I'm... assuming the food's not two weeks old?" he inquired, a moment later, as House took a seat on the couch and twisted the cap off his beer.

"I came over last night," House replied, shifting in his seat. "It was Cuddy's idea. Some sort of touchy-feely crap about helping you get settled back in."

Wilson nodded, and then he crossed to the couch and sat down. "Thanks," he said, gesturing towards his drink, "although I'm pretty sure this isn't what Cuddy had in mind."

He gazed around the room for a moment, and then he turned back to House. "This is truly _weird_. It feels as though we should be celebrating... something, though." He raised his bottle, and tipped it in House's direction. "Well, L'Chaim, House," he said, and then he raised the bottle to his lips and drank.

House let out a breath, and settled a little deeper into the cushions. "L'Chaim, Wilson," he said, and then he did the same.

– ----- –

**One Month Later**

"Percocet?"

"Pain relief. Generic name acetaminophen and oxycodone. Oxycodone's a narcotic, and acetaminophen increases the effects."

"Neurontin?"

"Generic name gabapentin. It's an anti-epileptic medication. Also used to manage neuralgia."

"Ativan?"

"It's a benzodiazepine. Generic name Lorazepam. Used to treat anxiety disorders."

"Name three more benzodiazepines."

"Okaaay... Let's see. Xanax—generic name alprazolam. Librium—generic name chlordiazepoxide. Tranxene—generic name clorazepate. Valium—generic name diazepam. Serax—generic name oxazepam."

"_Bzzzzzzt! Wrong answer!"_

House appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was still dripping from the shower, and fastening a towel around his waist.

"That was five, not three," he said. "Are you innumerate now too, or have you just remembered how to be a smart ass?"

Wilson smiled, and flipped the last of the pancakes onto a plate. "How could I fail as a smart ass when I've been learning from the Grand Master?" he quipped, and then he turned towards the table.

"Breakfast's ready," he said, as he lowered the plate. Then his gaze dropped to House's towel. "Yours is the short stack, since we're speaking metaphorically this morning."

House snorted, and attempted unsuccessfully to quell a grin. "At least there's still a handle on my cane," he said, as he reached for the pancakes and speared a couple with his fork.

"Not bad," he said, several pancakes later. "If Cuddy won't have you back then maybe we can find you a job as a short-order cook."

Wilson had just finished the crossword, and as he pushed the paper across to House he reached for the last pancake. "Speaking of Cuddy," he said. "Were you planning on getting dressed at some stage? It's almost nine o'clock. I'm pretty sure she's expecting us in before lunch time."

Wilson had returned to the hospital on a part-time basis a couple of weeks earlier, and he'd spent the time tailing House in Diagnostics. House had told Cuddy that immersion therapy would be good for Wilson's memory—_and clearly that had been true_, House reflected now, with satisfaction as well as relief—but the heart of the matter was that he simply liked having Wilson around. Cuddy had looked at him with narrowed eyes when he'd first suggested it, but from the way her expression had mellowed into an irritating smirk it seemed likely to House that she'd understood him perfectly. She hadn't argued, anyway.

Today Wilson was returning to Oncology. He planned to spend a couple of weeks shadowing Brown, catching up on admin and easing himself back in, and if his progress continued at the current rate then he and Cuddy hoped he'd be able to return full-time at the end of January.

"You can't hurry genius, Wilson," House replied now, leaning across the table and snagging the last of the pancake from the end of Wilson's fork. "You need to cut down on the carbs," he continued, as he stuffed the pancake into his mouth and wiped his fingers on Wilson's shirt. "Don't ever say I don't take care of you!"

– ----- –

Four hours later House swiveled in his chair and switched off his computer. Then he reached for his right leg and lifted it off the desk. Sonny Landreth was playing loudly through his headphones, and for a moment House felt as though he was bordering dangerously on just plain happy. As he swept a pile of medical journals into his backpack, Kutner poked his head around the door.

House watched Kutner's lips moving, and—not for the first time—he wished it was possible to silence him; or maybe even _eliminate_ him with some sort of cosmic _'delete'_ key. Eventually he removed his headphones, though. "What!" he inquired, with a glare, wondering whether if he glared angrily enough it might be possible to _scare_ Kutner away.

Kutner appeared unmoved, though, and simply began again. "We're leaving now," he said. "Three o'clock at O'Reilly's, if you and Wilson want to come along." Then he smirked. "Taub's wife's in reception. She's coming. I think maybe she's checking up on him."

"Really?" House paused for a moment in his packing. Taub's wife remained a mystery, and for a moment he was tempted to take the elevator and check her out. Possibly swap a few items of Taub-related information. Just to see what sort of reaction he might get. Maybe later, though, he decided on reflection. He could always see her at the bar, if he and Wilson decided to drop in after all.

"No can do," he replied. "Duty calls. I'll be spending the afternoon at the homeless shelter. I do it every year, you know," he continued. "Doling out turkey and trimmings to life's unloved and unfortunates." He cocked his head to one side at that, and arranged his features into as close as they could get to a beatific expression. "It's just my way of celebrating," he concluded. "I'm all about the giving."

For a moment Kutner looked surprised, but then his face settled back into its customary shrug. "Okay," he said. "See you next week. Merry Christmas," he added, as he turned and left the room.

House zipped up his backpack, then, and arranged it over his shoulder. Most Christmases were spent either holed up in his apartment watching re-runs, or dealing with some sort of emergency at the hospital. This year, though, he was spending the holidays with Wilson.

As House shut the door behind him on the way to Wilson's office, he toyed with the issue of lunch. He'd already decided that Wilson was paying, but he hadn't yet decided where to go. House favored _Sakura Express_. The sushi was great, and he secretly liked to watch Wilson pretending not to struggle with the chopsticks. Last time they'd eaten there House had pointed to a waitress, and asked Wilson if he could remember doing her. Wilson hadn't remembered—which was unsurprising, since it had never happened—but House had spent an enjoyable hour stringing Wilson along. _Zen Palate_ was another possibility, but House was never sure he liked the idea of loading himself up with too much healthy cuisine. Wilson liked it, though, and it occurred to House now that maybe Wilson was due for a treat.

"Okay!" he said, loudly, as he pushed Wilson's door open. "All packed and ready to go?" There was no reply, though, and no sign of Wilson at his desk.

Surprised, House took a step forwards, and let the door swing closed behind him. He checked his watch, and then some instinct caused him to turn to his right.

Wilson lay on his side next to the couch, one arm flung out towards the balcony as though he'd made a desperate attempt to attract attention. There was a book on the floor beside his feet, and an empty coffee cup lay in pieces near his head.

_"No!"_ House felt his stomach contract. He dropped his cane and backpack, and as he launched himself towards Wilson a differential began to play automatically through his mind. _Seizure? Post-traumatic aneurysm? Heart attack? Second impact syndrome?_ He dropped to his knees behind Wilson and leaned over him, easing him rapidly onto his back.

"Wilson!" he yelled, shaking him by the shoulders. "Open your eyes! _Hey! Wilson!_" There was no response, though, and House leaned forwards, panting, to check Wilson's pulse. The pulse was rapid, and House began to search for signs of bleeding. He found nothing, though, and—stomach convulsing once again—he bent down and lowered his right cheek towards Wilson's mouth, staring frantically along his chest for signs of movement. But Wilson wasn't breathing.

House felt now as though he was moving through treacle. He placed one hand on Wilson's forehead and the other under his chin, and tilted his head back. He checked Wilson's airway, and it was as he was lowering his mouth towards Wilson's that Wilson opened his eyes and spoke.

"April fools!" he said, with a grin. House stared mutely down at him, transfixed, and a few seconds later Wilson placed a hand on House's chest and gave him a gentle shove. "Get off," he said. "You're squashing me."

"But..." House slumped backwards, suddenly, and threw out a hand to steady himself. "It's _December!_" he sputtered, unable to come up with a less literal response. Even to him his voice sounded almost whiney.

"Is it?" Wilson had stood up now, and he lowered a hand and offered to pull House to his feet. As he was doing so he grinned again. "Apparently I forgot! Maybe I need to go see Foreman and ask him to check me out."

Shocked into compliance, House accepted Wilson's assistance without demur, and after pulling him to his feet Wilson pushed him sideways, and lowered him onto the couch. "Calm down," he said, with a poor attempt to stifle his grin. He took a seat on the couch, and a few seconds later he reached for House's wrist. "I didn't realize you'd be this upset."

House shook him off, though. "It's a bit late now to be thinking about my heart rate!" he yelled, his voice returning, and outrage oozing from every pore. "You could have given me a _heart attack!_"

Wilson huffed. "A little shock isn't going to give you a heart attack," he said, with aggravating complacency. "Besides, you're in a hospital."

House stared at him in disbelief, and then he lowered his head and took a deep breath. His heart was pounding so loud that he could barely think, and he could vaguely feel cushions bunching in his fists.

"Here."

The sound of Wilson's voice recalled House to reality, and when he looked up he saw Wilson offering him a glass of water.

Wilson was looking guilty, and as his breath slowly returned House began to calm down. He accepted the glass, and as his anxiety evaporated a smile started at the corners of his mouth. _Well, carpe diem!_ he thought, suddenly, and so he quickly dipped his head and re arranged his features into a disapproving scowl.

He was about to speak when another thought struck him, and he produced his mental marker instead. _Fair's fair_, he thought, and then he silently added 1,000 bonus points, an Extra Life and Completion of a Secret Level to Wilson's score. They were Wilson's first new points for quite some time, and House had to admit he was pleased to be adding them to the list.

Then he returned to the attack. "You could have _killed_ me!" he said, and as he pushed himself slowly to his feet he was already running through the possibilities in his mind. _Maybe he could recoup some points at the sushi restaurant_. He placed a hand on his chest, and limped in an exaggerated fashion towards the door... _He never had told Wilson the truth about the waitress_... and as he bent to pick up his cane he remembered the chopsticks. _Hmmm... maybe he could order noodle soup... First things first, though_...

"Get my backpack," he growled, experimentally, gesturing towards the floor, and when Wilson stooped to collect it House pushed a little further. "Best give me your credit card too," he went on, extending a hand. "I'm going to need it when I see the cardiologist." Wilson hesitated, and so House continued. "Unless you want the hospital to cover it. I could always go to Cuddy and explain..."

"You _wouldn't_..." Wilson began, indignantly, but apparently House's expression convinced him that he would. Wilson rolled his eyes, but then he sighed and began to reach for his wallet, and House had to smother another grin.

House waved his cane imperiously towards the door handle, and with a look of defeat Wilson shouldered the backpack and opened the door.

"You know that would be a breach of our agreement, right?" he said, as they made their way towards the elevator. "The _first rule!_ No talking about fight club! Well," he added, as as he pressed the button for the ground floor. "Not to Cuddy, anyway."

"Ha!" Now it was House's turn to huff. "I keep telling you everybody lies, Wilson," he said, as he stepped into the elevator, "and besides... you know what they say." And even to himself House sounded a little smug. "All's fair in love and war!"

The End


End file.
